


Off the Rack

by plingo_kat



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:06:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dear Will,” Hannibal says, and Will knows -- <em>knows</em> -- that this isn’t going to end well. “This is not an invitation to an office party. Do you have plans for the rest of the day?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off the Rack

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Off The Rack 现成之衣](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456192) by [alucard1771](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alucard1771/pseuds/alucard1771)



> So I spent much too long [looking](http://www.tie-necktie-video.com/tie-pattern.html) [things](http://www.wikihow.com/Choose-a-Color-for-Suits) [up](http://www.theurbangent.com/2011/07/white-collar-style-fashion-guide-of-neal-caffrey-matt-bomer.html) [about](http://www.realmenrealstyle.com/how-to-tailor-your-suit/) [men's](http://artiststoolbox.tumblr.com/post/29483855614/skullpeach-zorobro-aks-guide-to-suits-an) [fashion](http://onorobo.tumblr.com/post/26119969232/mens-suit-masterpost) to decide what Will would wear. Also, nobody is blatantly emotionally disturbed or cannibalistic! It feels unnatural.
> 
> [Prompt:](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=57951#cmt57951) Will has to attend a formal event. He doesn't own any appropriate clothing so Hannibal volunteers to dress him. A bespoke fic, emphasizing Hannibal admiring Will in fine clothing. Bonus if Will invites Hannibal to be his plus one, just so he won't have to show up alone.

The card comes in the mail. Given that Will doesn’t usually _read_ his mail, it takes Jack asking before Will realizes anything is happening at all.

“What?” he says.

“The annual FBI ball,” Jack frowns. “Did you not get an invitation?”

Will thinks of the stack of unopened letters sitting on his kitchen counter. “No,” he says, lying with barely a blink. “I didn’t.”

Jack narrows his eyes at him. “Uh huh,” he says. “I’ll pretend to believe you. Go home and open your damn mail, Graham.”

Will stares a point just off Jack’s nose and raises an eyebrow. It looks like he’s making eye contact when he isn’t.

“And wear something nice,” Jack adds, turning away. He raises his voice. “Consult Dr. Lecter if you have to!”

 _Consult Dr. Lecter if you have to,_ Will mimics silently and petulantly, pulling a face. As if he can’t dress himself.

 

He makes the mistake of mentioning this to Hannibal at their next session.

“Oh?” Hannibal leans forward, interested. “I had not realized that the FBI held the equivalent of an annual police ball.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s more like a giant office party,” Will says, waving a hand. “Ah. Here, you can see the invitation. I left it in my bag so I wouldn’t forget to go.”

“I am sure esteemed Jack would remind you of your civic duty,” Hannibal says, taking the envelope with his long, slender fingers. He looks over the envelope front and back before opening it, extracting the card with a sharp tap. He runs the pad of his fingers over the edges, brushing the ink with the lightest of touches, holds the entire thing up to the light. When he looks at Will again, his gaze is pitying.

“Dear Will,” he says, and Will knows -- _knows_ \-- that this isn’t going to end well. “This is not an invitation to an office party. Do you have plans for the rest of the day?”

“Do I—“ Will says, but Hannibal is already sliding the card back into its envelope and depositing it back into Will’s bag.

“I assume you were going to go in something similar to what you are wearing now?”

Will looks down at his light grey suit jacket, thrown hastily over a plaid shirt and khakis. “Something slightly… better, but yes.”

Hannibal tuts softly. “We shall have to get a bit of a rush job, I’m afraid,” he says, taking Will gently by the arm and guiding him toward the door. “Depending on what Mr. Hargreaves thinks.”

“What?” Will says.

“You need a suit,” Hannibal explains. “My tailor is quite good, I assure you.”

 

“I don’t need a suit,” Will is still arguing when they pull up to a modest storefront. It has valet parking. “I _have_ a suit. I have multiple suits.”

“And none of them,” Hannibal runs his eyes over Will’s body. “Are tailored.”

“I don’t need them to be tailored,” Will says as they walk into the shop, and doesn’t notice when a man nearly drops his armful of fabric. “I look perfectly fine.”

Hannibal says nothing but the hand at the small of Will’s back presses forward more firmly, as if to prevent an escape. Will crosses his arms.

“Mr. Lecter.” Hannibal nods at a man, slim and impeccably dressed, slightly shorter than Will, and shakes his hand.

“Mr. Hargreaves,” he answers, pushing Will forward. “I need to request a favor, please.”

 _”Ah,”_ Mr. Hargreaves says, voice full of implication. Will’s skin pinpricks in acute awareness as Hargreaves’ eyes absorb his state of dress; he ignores it and takes the time to judge Hargreaves in return.

Around five-nine, salt and pepper hair, sharp nose and pale skin. Thin mouth, with both frown and laugh lines. Grey eyes. He loves his work. No wedding ring. Correction: he likely lives for his work. Or he could be gay; the two aren’t mutually exclusive. 

“He has a good build, if on the skinny side,” Hargreaves says, turning away to scan the racks of suits. “I assume this is for a formal occasion?”

 _Normal people don’t get tailored suits for anything else_ , Will doesn’t say. Hannibal’s hand presses briefly against his side.

“Yes,” he says instead. “A, uh, formal dinner.”

“Black,” Hannibal supplies, and finally steps away. Will hadn’t realized how close the other man was. “With a single vent in the jacket, I think. Will?”

Will shrugs. “I’ve been told I look good in three-buttoned blazers.”

“Greg!” Hargreaves beacons to one of the people folding and hanging suits on the racks. To Will and Hannibal, he says, “We have off-the-racks for emergencies like these. I can adjust it, although of course it won’t be as good as a bespoke suit.”

“That will do,” Hannibal says. “I assume, for someone of Will’s stature… Asos?”

Hargreaves makes a face. Will has a sudden suspicion.

“You just gave him a cheaper brand, didn’t you,” he says. “Hannibal, I do _not_ want to spend more than a thousand dollars on a suit I’m probably only going to wear – at most! – two or three times a year.”

There is a feeling of silent affront from Hargreaves. Hannibal smiles at him, the indulgent quirk of lips that any other person would give to a pet. Will tries not to bristle.

“If the bill runs over eight hundred, I shall cover the rest myself,” Hannibal says. Will makes a strangled noise in his throat. “Unless you will let me pay for all of it…?”

Will is tempted, except that he knows Hannibal won’t regret the expenditure even if the amount becomes ridiculous. The man doesn’t commit to anything he doesn’t absolutely want to do.

“No.”

Hannibal spreads his hands. _Well, then._

“Asos,” he continues, turning back to Hargreaves as if there was no interruption. “If you have it. Fairly inexpensive wool of good quality if not. Will, if you will allow Greg to measure you?”

Will takes off his current blazer, resigning himself to his fate.

 

Three hours later Will walks out with a navy blue silk dress shirt, a promise to come back tomorrow in the right shoes for hem alterations, and uncomfortable memories of pins and hands much too close to his crotch. 

“Was that really necessary,” he says flatly.

Hannibal’s returning gaze is warm, amused, and possessive. “Absolutely, Will. You want to be dressed your best, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to go to this ball at all.”

“Then you can show up, surprise Jack and the lovely Alana with your suddenly improved fashion sense, and leave. Perhaps you will come over for dinner if you do not fill yourself up.”

“That’s right, you mentored Alana, didn’t you?”

Hannibal inclines his head. “I did.”

Will taps his fingers against his arm. “Would you like to come? I’ve got a plus one and nobody to bring. You could see her.”

Hannibal takes his eyes off the road at that, just long enough to look at Will in quiet surprise. “I thank you for the offer, Will, and gladly accept. You do realize, though, that I have Dr. Bloom’s number and could call her at any time.”

Will shrugs. “It’s more convenient this way.”

“Hm. So it is.”

 

Will goes by himself to the fitting. Hannibal offers to cancel a session with a patient but Will declines. He thanks Hargreaves and pays the bill (suspiciously low, he’ll have to talk to Hannibal about that later) and hangs the plastic-wrapped suit in the car.

The ball is in two days.

 

“I really don’t need help getting dressed,” Will says when he opens the door to find Hannibal standing on the other side. The man is, as usual, impeccably costumed, although this time eschewing plaid in favor of a dark suit with deep maroon pinstripes and a matching plum pocket square with embroidered maroon paisley patterns. 

“I brought you a tie,” Hannibal says in return, neatly sidestepping the accusation. “May I come in?”

Will sighs, steps back, and opens the door wide.

Hannibal is not immediately swarmed by dogs. This is mostly because Will shut them all up in the kitchen; he has a lint roller handy for the hair he picks up just walking around the house.

“Give me five minutes,” Will says. He hopes that Hannibal will stay put in the living room, but there’s no such luck. He follows Will to the bedroom.

Will has already showered, shaved and put on his dress pants. Now he wishes that he had the foresight to don an undershirt too; in order to put on the dress shirt, he has to take off his ratty tee. He turns his back on Hannibal and hunches over, pulling the shirt over his head. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes prickling along the skin of his back.

“I’m really not that interesting,” he mutters.

“On the contrary,” Will can hear the smile in Hannibal’s voice. “You are quite fascinating to anyone with a modicum of perception.”

“Maybe,” Will suggests, shrugging on his dress shirt and beginning to do up the buttons, “people with a modicum of perception could look away when I’m changing.”

“You are sufficiently covered,” Hannibal says. Will turns around, hands still doing up the last of the buttons by his collar.

“That doesn’t—never mind.” It isn’t worth the effort to try and argue with him. He walks over to his closet and pulls out the suit jacket, deep black wool, and pinches his cuffs so his sleeves don’t ride up. When it’s on he checks the fit in the mirror.

Hannibal appears behind him. Startled, Will meets his reflection’s eyes. Hannibal smiles.

He holds up a hand, a length of fabric dangling from his fingers. “May I?”

Will very determinedly doesn’t turn around. “I can tie my own tie, thank you.”

“Come now, Will,” Hannibal says. He sounds uniquely condescending, in the special way that makes Will feel like _he’s_ the one who is being unreasonable. “Let me properly present your gift to you.”

“I don’t… like people touching me.”

“Then I shall not touch you.” Hannibal keeps his tone soft, but underneath is an implacable sort of force. Will knows he won’t change his mind without a fight.

Will worries, actually, that he doesn’t _want_ to fight with Hannibal.

He turns slowly, waiting for the other man to step back. It doesn’t happen.

“Chin up, please,” Hannibal says. His voice is low, plosives softer than usual. He sounds kind, or maybe anticipatory.

Will bares his throat and closes his eyes.

The weight of silk settles lightly over his shoulders; Will suppresses a shudder when Hannibal flips his collar up, but he keeps his promise and doesn’t touch Will’s skin. Will can hear his breathing, light and even. Can feel the movement of the tie and Hannibal manipulates the fabric, each pull and twist moving the length of it back and forth over his nape or flapping its end against his belly and chest. He bites the inside of his cheek and squeezes his eyes shut harder.

“Nearly done,” Hannibal murmurs, and a muscle in Will’s thigh twitches. He can feel Hannibal’s breath on his skin. He doesn’t want to reply.

Hannibal makes a quiet, wordless noise of satisfaction and slides the knot of the tie snugly against the base of Will’s throat. Will can’t help the hiss of air that can’t quite be classified as a gasp; the touch of fabric nudging at his trachea is nothing like a human hand, but it shocks him all the same.

He realizes he’s breathing more heavily than normal only when Hannibal steps away.

 _”Very_ good,” he says, and Will forces himself to look.

Hannibal is only a blur in the corner of his peripheral vision as Will turns to gaze in the mirror. He is – startling, is the first word that comes to mind, but then come the associations: dressed like a lawyer, businessman, Hannibal Lecter himself.

His clothing is all dark, black suit over a navy shirt, black tie with deep red paisley patterns tied neatly in a half Windsor. His single-breasted jacket has English shoulders, notched lapels, and single vent that – he raises his arms in front of him a little – ends right at the small of his back, with three black buttons. Will nearly doesn’t recognize himself.

Hannibal smiles at him in the mirror, a wolf’s grin of lazy satisfaction.

 

Will is complimented by every fifth person on how well he cleans up. It’s as awful as he thought it would be, even hiding behind Alana and Hannibal in a corner of the room.

“You know, I don’t think you could have made it more blatant if you tried,” Alana says, sipping her champagne. She eyes Will, who is deeply engrossed in some sort of dinner roll, and then gazes pointedly at Hannibal’s suit pocket. “Will would never have dressed that way himself, and a tie that matches with your pocket square? Really, Hannibal?”

Hannibal’s lips quirk. “Is it a crime that I wanted Will to present himself nicely?”

“Does he even know?”

“Will is quite perceptive.”

Will turns his face towards them when he hears his name, but his gazes wanders as he casts around for a place to put his plate. “Sorry, what?”

Alana raises her eyebrows. “Don’t do anything that would require me to report you for unethical behavior,” she says to Hannibal. “Will, I’ve got to mingle a bit. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, uh, bye.” Will gives a little wave. “So,” he says, turning to Hannibal. “Do you think I can leave yet?”

Hannibal gestures him toward the doors.

 

“Thank you,” Will says abruptly. The two of them took Hannibal’s car, since Hannibal declared he wouldn’t drink and would be happy to be the designated driver. “For acting as a buffer for me in there.”

“It was the least I could do,” Hannibal says. “In return for inviting me. And you have been a good sport about the suit.”

“Well.” Will can feel his face twisting into a grin. “I do look, uh, _dashing_.”

Hannibal laughs quietly. “So you do.” Light and shadows chase their way over his face as the car drives steadily onward. 

“So you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some things that didn't quite make it into the fic that you obviously need to know: the reason the single vent is mentioned so much is because Hannibal is creeping about Will's ass. _("The single vent is most common and is a very American style cut with a more casual look. It’s worn best by men that have a bit of a booty on them. With hands in your pockets, this vent will splay open and reveal the backside." [[src](http://onorobo.tumblr.com/post/26119969232/mens-suit-masterpost)])_ Will wears his glasses to the party and looks like a cross between James Bond, Q, and Harry Potter. Hannibal is extremely smug about the fact that Will keeps the tie.
> 
> Also, the FBI annual ball is a lie. There is no such thing. I made it up! I made it all up! /crazy cackling laughter
> 
>  
> 
> plingokat @ twitter


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